


Non-Perishable

by aqhrodites



Series: The Clock Opera [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Companion Piece, F/M, Rare Pairings, Romance, Scalia, Scallison, Scira Week, Scolia - Freeform, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmate marks, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The Clock Opera, The Clock Opera AU, Third Person POV, because it's risky of course, not much angst, nothing turns out the way anyone wants, relationships might sever, scira - Freeform, stira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Are you going to speak or you going to keep staring at me the whole night?” Her voice slices through his thoughts like a knife to butter.</i>
</p><p>  <i>He stammers, eventually choking out a coarse, thick “no.” He notices that her eyes are just as sharp as her words and he diverts his sight with a sense that is almost like shame. <b>Almost</b>.</i></p><p>  <i>“You’ve been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, Scott. There something you gotta say?” she asks, less harsh this time. “Say it.”</i></p><p>  <i>And then Scott’s given the opportunity. He has the option of speaking this out, to maybe come to an agreement to this all or at least an understanding because there’s no way, <b>absolutely no way</b>—</i></p><p>  <i>His mouth drops open and for a moment, for one second, be believes that the mark will take over and that this must all be some kind of cosmic joke—because it has to be—it must be.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Non-Perishable

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of first part of the rare pairs series ‘The Clock Opera’ as I promised. The series thus far is also posted on [my tumblr](http://aqhrodites.tumblr.com/tagged/the-clock-opera-au). This first part is Scott's POV—I broke it up because the events of the second half of this pairing take place in the future. As the series goes on, there will be glimpses in the future as well as some of the characters' past. It isn’t technically necessary to read them in order, although you probably should just to understand some of the references, dialogue, and the final sections of each one-shot. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> **xoxo**

 

* * *

**_###_ **

_storm / calm_

_I._

When Scott McCall is eleven years old, he gets his mark.

He remembers because it was just after his birthday and that the tingling, rippling, splintering sensation when it appeared was the most painful thing he’s ever felt in his short life. And he scratched and hollered to his mother, for his mother, until the burning ebbed into a bearable throb under the curve of his knee. He remembers the look on his mother’s face too—first of horror, and then the smile that seeped through. And that his body was shaking afterwards, and through teary eyes he sees the cratered, pink scar that had just been smooth, brown skin moments ago.

It’s a detailed, large three-sided prism with a triangular hole in each face, stamped on his upper calf, and it’s so perplexing, so enthralling, that it was found far more interesting by his  _mother_  than himself. It’s baffling, and  _annoying_ , really, because truly, in what world is getting a symbol etched in your skin like a brand a glorious thing and  _“my God! My boy is growing up!”_  thrown around like this is a fucking right of passage? Because in what life is this sort of thing interesting, this sort of liability given to an  _eleven year old_?

Regardless, the mark never really resonates with him—especially not at this young age—and not in the meaningful way, and most days he’s able to forget that it’s there until a group of kids in the school yard want him to pull back the legs of his shorts and show the  _cool mark_.

Scott ignores that it’s there. He almost doesn’t want it to be, and lies about its existence, because he’s eleven and in the fifth grade and the  _Power Rangers_ were far more appealing than this mark, despite his mother’s zealous spirits about the thing, and it’s the width of three of his fingers anyway, shaped similar to an arrowhead, and it’s such a  _wee bitty thing_  that it could no way hold any significance and it’s  _just a little mark anyway_ —

He doesn’t fully understand what it means.

* * *

 

_II._

Her name is Allison Argent, and she smells like lavender and the faint whiff of the cinnamon and whipped cream that she gets on her Starbucks coffee from across the street every morning, and her lips pop with that cherry flavored chapstick that she keeps in her purse. That he’s tasted on a few occasions. Multiple occasions. Some he would wouldn’t admit weren’t at school, sometimes in the confines of one’s personal four bedroom walls…

Scott has no idea what to say to her at first, all auburn-hair and Bambi-eyed and worrying to her mother over the phone on her first day. But it doesn’t seem to matter now when he had turned around and handed her a much needed pencil with the widest, dopiest smile ever to exist—she will tell him months later. And he wonders if the bleary, capricious haze overtaking his senses is due to his lack of a good night’s sleep or the instinctive, alluring  _sureness_  of the dimples in her smile.

He suspects the latter.

But she’s compassionate and strong-willed and sapient, and when she’s just there he can’t deny the doubtless pull that’s like a hook in his gut—and he grimaces at this—because he’s tripping over stools  _and_  his own feet, and missing the easiest passes at games, and just can’t seem to do anything  _right_  with his mind in a whirl and his stomach fluttering and churning into straight mush. And he hates it. He hates it when he’s made a running joke by queen Lydia Martin and there’s this pulsating, almost vibrating inverted tattoo on the side of his leg that just the other day almost made him eat the fucking  _tile floor_ ; like when Allison is present or suggesting “motivational tactics” in his ear to finally bowl a straight strike, and she  _must_  have seen him as a loser too, surely—

And he hates it, that the world seems to turn slow when she’s here, when everything could easily become “just one more” and “a little bit longer” because time becomes an illusion then, and the lights of the universe are dancing around them, and he feels powerful, incredible,  _invincible_ , and he loses his mind and control of his senses.

He hates it when he’s like this around her, when he’s irrational and then becomes unappeasably  _angry_  because everyone knows him, knows his name, of who had been and the animal he fears to become now. And it doesn’t matter that he’s the lacrosse team captain  _now_ , or that he’s managed to attract the school’s queen bee attention to  _not_  metaphorically kill, or that he’s become significantly better at math, because certainly, he’s too weak to be deserving, too feeble, and far too awkward—

But her voice is melodious and her touch magnetic, and her all-around general presence is angelic, and suddenly, the world becomes alright.

Almost a full year and and two months pass into their maelstrom of a relationship when she finally shows him her mark. The moment is serene, placid, and albeit, surrounded by the inky blue sky atop her roof outside her bedroom window, with Arcade Fire playing softly in the background. And both are finally able to relax because he doesn’t have to hide or lie to her anymore and Peter, the werewolf who bit him, is now dead.

She guides his hand to the side of her waist, sliding the fabric of her shirt up to where his fingers caress the engraved indent in her lush complexion.

“I got it two years ago,” Allison informs, and then bites her lip. “While in the pool where…where we used to live and I—they say I almost drowned because I was flailing so much.” She scoffs a bit, flashing an embarrassed grin.

And then all the talk about misguided feelings and misinformed advice, and overstated inquires of “young teenage love” that helps in an absolute no amount is finally thrown out the window because now he knows.

He  _knows_.

They  _both_  know.

And there’s this shared sense of blissful premonition and utter, complete entirety that is devoid of any words because they just can’t  _fill it_ , no matter how poetic or sincere because this—her—them, it’s unreal, storybook-like, and it’s  _perfect_. He rolls up his pants leg to show her— _really_  show her this time—the small cratered mark there. He shows its sharp detail and cut edges, its smooth curves and elegance about it—and it compliments her. And when she shows hers, it’s a small sun etched in her side—a spiral encircled by an octad of tiny triangles. It’s cute, she tells him; and when he smiles, she says it fits him.

* * *

 

_III._

It’s three years later and Scott’s in the eleventh grade and sitting in the tub of his bathroom, hands stained pink and brown and  _reeking_  of alcohol and floor cleaner and still he keeps scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing.

It’s three years and five months later, to be exact, and he now knows what a silver-tipped arrow is; he now knows what it means. And it feels like he’s been skewered on a pike, like his insides have been torn out and trampled, like there’s a Stygian void that has been opened in his chest, and he  _just can’t take it_.

And he hates it. But it’s not like how he hated Derek’s cryptic messages and sketchy ways of teaching him control over Scott's powers in the beginning, or the way he had hated Jackson, or how he and Stiles and the others were trapped in the school by a more animalistic Peter as a beast, or when his father  _suddenly decides to show up_  and almost causes his best friend’s father his job, or how he had almost lost his said best friend.

No, it’s not like this—it’s worse.

He hates this.  _Absolutely_.

And he wants the mark  _off_. He wants it away, gone, with no visible indication of it ever having been. Not now, not ever.

Stripes of pink, red, and a dark rustic brown weave down the side of the tub like veins, and there are opened bottles of rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, nail polish acetone, and anything that had “remover” or “ cleaner” in its description that are scattered across the tile floor and have all been emptied to less than half full.

He wants it away and off.

There’s a bar of soap he had used to no success that slipped away nearby, and a washcloth. He had used his mother’s loofah, his back scrubber brush, and then some exfoliator he found under her bathroom sink, and then containers of removers found under the one in the kitchen, and he washed it all off under the searing hot water of the bathtub faucet and he cries—not because of the burning from his skin, having literally scrubbed it pink, raw, and off, or the warm trickling of blood that steadily dribbled from his open, arrowhead-shaped mark, or the scolding he’d receive from his mother when she returns from work about how she’d never be able to get the colors out of the grout. He’s used up two washcloths and worn his back-brush down and an entire bottle of his mother’s beaded and scented face exfoliator, and it isn’t until he’s holding a trembling, honed-tipped claw to the top of his calf, panting, feeling the air fly from his lungs for the second time that night, blurry-visioned, and wishing, when he stops.

He pauses.

He gasps, and takes another deep breath. The world begins to stop spinning, and he pauses.

His hand trembles.

He gulps, the air clearing his head.

He stops.

 _“I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to tell you this, but sweetheart, let me tell you something that no teenager ever believes, but I guarantee you it’s the absolute truth: you can fall in love more than once. It will happen again, and it will be just as amazing and extraordinary as the first time, and maybe just as painful,”_ his mother’s voice rings in his head.

Scott looks to his raised hand, and his claws are tainted a rusty color, ready to gouge the mark from his flesh, and he’s sure that the scent of the cleaning solution will last for days.

Months have passed since Allison’s death, and Chris Argent, her father, disappearing from the grid who is no doubly miles away.

_“But it’ll happen again. And, I promise you, it will.”_

Scott’s nostrils flare and he inhales another mouthful of contaminated air.

Back when his mother originally took him aside and spoke this, he couldn’t help but ask if this is what happened between her and his father.

 _“No, he wasn’t,”_  she had responded.  _“I didn’t have a mark for him either. My, uh, my first, uh, they died long ago. But your father…he was there for me when I needed it…” She paused._

That didn’t make Scott feel any better.

He feels his claws retract as he lowers his hand and blinks away the last of his tears that trickle out his eye’s corners. And he’s exhausted, exerted, and he exhales a lungful of chemically-permeated air and drops his head. The memories of the past three years wouldn’t go away and continue to flash behind his eyes against his desperate yearnings. He draws his knees to his chest and rests his chin atop the caps.

An hour passes that he sits in the slick, porcelain, bloodstained tub like that.

He knows that Lydia has had her mark since preschool, and the twins Ethan and Aiden had proudly shown off theirs, and only recently did Derek reveal his—twin stalks of wheat that had blackened and scabbed over, a state much like Scott’s mark had been when the Oni delivered that fateful blow, the deadly stab through Allison stomach by a poisoned sword blade—and he remembers that it will all be fine.

Scott tightens his arms around his legs.

He reminds himself that he will be fine.

Forty-three minutes pass when he hears the front door unlock and his mother shuffle in from downstairs. He hurries and turns on the shower to watch the water wash all the slime and red and chemicals and evidence into a tiny whirlpool and vanish down the drain.

He wishes he could scrub away memories.

His mother yells and asks what he would like for dinner that night. He answers back that pizza is fine.

* * *

 

_IV._

Stiles tells that he met up with Malia at Eichen House Asylum, and Scott watches how soon after, they turn into a kind of item. And he has to admit that they’re cute—well, he means that they don’t look particularly  _bad_  together, but—

There’s something about them that just doesn’t quite tick  _right_  with Scott. He thinks that maybe it’s how Malia seems like she sort of has to be around Stiles as if to reassure herself of  _something_ ; or how Stiles’ words are never the final say-so, at least until Scott gives an order; how she seems to stare at  _Scott_  like there’s a pimple on his face or food in his teeth, or how Stiles seems to force himself a little  _too much_  into their kisses lately, or how not too long ago he noticed that Malia’s pulse seems to grow more erratic around Stiles—and not in the good way—and there’s almost a sense of fear that she emits, fear and something else that Scott can’t put a finger on just yet.

Malia Tate came into their lives on a whim and hurry, and in a weird way, it’s been great and beneficial, a godsend. She isn’t like anyone before—and that’s not only because the first time she shifted was when she was nine. She’s a fish out of water but she’s strong and assertive, and sassy and guilt stricken.

Scott realizes that she’s very different—a good sort of different.

Sometimes, he thinks that he picks up on some type of chemosignal from her, but it’s one that he can’t recall of being very familiar with. And just when he is ready to ask her about it, or certain that this all must be just in his head, it evaporates.

One of the last times he’s talked to her was after the lacrosse team’s annual bonfire and there had been something on the tip of her tongue then, he could tell. But Malia is brash and outspoken and unapologetic and she looks like a goddess when she dances, and therefore Scott gives her space.

* * *

 

_V._

Six months later Scott earns his second scar, and this one is just as startling as the first, and the sharp stinging—though less painful this time—still caught him off guard. This time it’s on his left inner arm just below the crease of his elbow, and it’s within the worse timing ever because he knows what it is, what it meant—or, at least, he  _thinks_  he knows.

This time it is a small, intricate alder leaf, something he could fit on both of his thumbs. And this time,  _he’s_  so boggled by it that all he can do is stare at it, and stare, and contemplate. He could see the spikes along the edges and could count the veins—one, two, three, four, five, six—and it’s bad because it’s the worst thing that could have happened to him right now.

Six veins; six months it took to destroy his life.

This is the worst thing that could have happened to him because there’s Stiles and Malia, and there’s Lydia and his new beta Liam, and he and Kira were  _just_ about to reach that milestone in their relationship—

It’s the worst thing because Scott gets his second mark, and he knows it’s not Kira’s. And he can’t quite bring himself to tell her, much less  _show_  her.

He’s afraid—of what she’ll say, what she’ll think, and just whose mark it was, and Scott wasn’t even sure if Kira  _had_  a mark. Much less a matching one. It wouldn’t be too much of an issue, he thinks—he’s heard of cases where those with corresponding marks, where soulmates have actively  _ignored_  their partners, and by some way that Scott doesn’t know, ignores that ungiving tug that brought them together.

He decides to wait to tell Kira.

* * *

 

_[ final ]_

Because Deaton explained that, according to the ancient Celtic meanings, the alder tree stands for endurance, strength, and passion, it wasn’t too difficult for him to come to his decisions to talk with the owner of his mark—and with much help from the Druid.

And Scott realizes that he truly does have the worst timing ever to speak up.

It’s nearing three in the morning and he glances over at Malia. She’s chewing on a thumbnail, deeply emerged in her reading, and he feels a tug at the corners of his lips at the cute wrinkle that forms between her brows then as she comes to a compelling point in  _The Dread Doctors_  novel.

He and his pack were all spending the night at his house to read their own photocopied packets of the book, given and written by Valack, a psychotic man, and to make sure no one had anymore violent hallucinations or was ran over by a car, and no one was to sleep. They’ve already broken the last of those rules.

Scott turns back to his photocopy of the novel and presses his knuckles to his upper lip and tries, fails to ignore the rapid beating of Malia’s pulse or the expanse of her throat as she leans it to the side or the brush of her eyelashes against her slender cheekbones, and he feels his stomach churning, chest tightening—

“Are you going to speak or you going to keep staring at me the whole night?”

Her voice slices through his thoughts like a knife to butter, and its curt and grating, and—he stammers over his words. Eventually, he chokes out a coarse, thick “no.” He notices that her eyes are just as sharp as her words and he diverts his sight with a sense that is almost like shame.  _Almost_.

“You’ve been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, Scott. There something you gotta say?” she asks, less harsh this time. “Say it.”

He gapes for a moment. Had it really been fifteen minutes?

“No—no I wasn’t! I just—”

“Uh huh.” He could tell that she wasn’t convinced. “You  _sure_? There’s  _nothing_  you want to talk about?”

The alarm in the digital clock was set to go off in two more hours. It’s numbers flicker into the next minute.

And then Scott’s given the opportunity. He has the option of speaking this out, to maybe come to an agreement to this all or at least an understanding because there’s no way, absolutely  _no way_ —

His mouth drops open and for a moment, for one second, be believes that the mark will take over and that this must all be some kind of cosmic joke—because it has to be—it  _must_  be.

Malia watches his thumb rub on the inside of his elbow.

Scott snaps his jaw closed.

“Uh, no. I’m good. I-I’m fine.”

Her eyes are round and doe-like and it could be described as a warm, exquisite nectar that is coursing through his veins, and the funny thing about it is that now, suddenly, he’s  _ok_  with it. He silently wishes there was more.

The clock changes from 3:25 a.m. to 3:27.

Kira had gone to Scott’s room to sleep; Stiles snores lightly on the couch nearby.

Malia sighs, tossing her photocopy of the novel down on the arm of the sofa. “Alright then. If you don’t, I will,” she mumbles. She pushes to a sitting position, swinging her feet from under her to the carpet. “Have you gotten your mark? I mean, another one; I know about Allison's—Stiles told me—but, have you gotten  _another one_ , perhaps?”

Scott squints, and notices that she’s holding her breath. She’s anxious.

“Stiles?” His voice escapes him and his brows furrow. “I, uh… Why is that…?”

“Have you?” she insists, but he stays silent and grinds his molars. “It’s because—” Malia continues swiftly, agitated, “because I got mine. It was a while back, actually…”

She sees a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. “Really? When?” He sounds a little too excited and he clears his throat.

Malia hesitates. “It appeared that day you changed me back human. It was when you roared and…this is stupid—this—this is— _oh my god_  what was I thinking. This is stupid. I was just wondering, okay?” She cuts off sharply, turning her back around and bringing her knees up on the cushion of the single sofa chair.

Well.

Scott wonders what to say, and whether  _to_  say anything.

The clock now reads 3:35 a.m.

Malia is staring at the packet again but she isn’t even reading, he sees. And he realizes that he’s terribly indecisive with socializing. Eventually, he admits, “yeah. I did.” The living room is silent; he sees she’s paying more attention now, but not fully wanting to look at him. “Yours—it’s Stiles’, right?”

And then Malia looks so worried, so distraught that Scott becomes concerned. “It’s Stiles, right?” he wants to press, but only manages to choke out a sound that could barely pass as speech.

“Not exactly,” she admits sheepishly, and it’s such a drastic change of character—it’s not like her. “Actually…he’s become so distant and kinda annoying, actually, and I don’t think…” She doesn’t finish. Instead, she places a hand on her wrist and begins to roll back the long sleeve of her shirt when she stops. “Wait, what’s yours?”

Scott’s lips part and when he asks what she meant, she responses, “your mark,  _duh_. You said you had another one. So show it.”

“What! Why?”

“Because you mentioned it first, so you go first. So, show. Now.”

Scott sighs. His thumb is rolling over his mark again. “It’s just a little leaf…”

Malia’s eyes widen. “A leaf… What kind of leaf?”

“Uh, Deaton said it’s an alder tree leaf. Why—”

“That’s it,” she finalizes. “Let me see.” And then she’s charging across the room to his seat and Scott barely has enough time to get to his feet or regain his breath that flew from his lungs when his pulse jumped in his throat, when Malia has her hands on his arm—and the sensation is warm and it  _tingles_ —and she’s rolling his sleeve up and up—

Scott watches her freeze, pull away like she’s been electrocuted, swallows, and her eyes are saucers. “Oh god,” comes out in a whisper that would be inaudible to normal ears.

Her hands are shaking and “what” and “what’s wrong” spill from his mouth immediately.

Malia takes a step back. “That’s my mark,” she whispers.

“What? Are you sure—”

“I think I’m pretty more than just  _sure_ ,” she snaps sarcastically. “I’d know my mark when I see it.”

Scott frowns. “Well than, show me yours now.”

“No.”

“What do you mean—”

“I mean  _no_.” She folds her arms.

Scott takes a minute to look her over and he knows that she’s just being less stubborn than she was fretful. “You said that you had Stiles, right? So, what’s the big deal?”

Her lips tighten into a straight line. “I said  _not exactly_  to whether I had Stiles.”

Scott pauses. “Wait…so you  _don’t_  have Stiles?”

“I said not—”

“Malia, you don’t have Stiles do you?” He speaks sternly, with more heaviness and emphasis.

She draws a deep breath through her nose, nostrils flaring, and he can tell that she’s so, utterly fearful. She’s gripping her sleeve tightly, and it begins to move up…

It’s a simple mark, but it equally makes him feel an identical wave of joy and dread and exhilaration and dejection. A thin circle enclosed by a thicker, larger circle was etched in the skin of her inner wrist just shy of her Ulnar artery.

He blinks, unsure at first but he’s certain now—this must be a game, has to be.

“Stiles doesn’t know,” she remarks.

Scott wipes his mouth nervously. “That’s a little more than  _not a not exactly like Stiles_ , Malia.”

“Yeah, I know.” She looks up and her worry doesn’t reflect quite the same in his eyes. “So what do we do? I don’t think I should tell him…”

“Yeah,” Scott breathes, “you definitely want to wait to tell Stiles.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please **comment** and leave kudos if you like it.
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](http://aqhrodites.tumblr.com/).


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